


Ill-advised

by Anecdoche (so_psychso)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Martin said monster fucker RIGHTS, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Trans Male Character, and I for one stan kings only, oh my god don't look at me idek, spoilers for ep 165
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23949442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche
Summary: Jon's vanquishing of Not!Sasha may have had some... unintended side-effects on Martin.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 29
Kudos: 429





	Ill-advised

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luftballons99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons99/gifts).



> we are Looking at [Ser's art](https://luftballons99.tumblr.com/post/616927150207074304/monsterfuckers-rise-up) and being just.... horrible about it good lord 
> 
> Don't @ me, wrote this on a whim and it got Significantly sluttier than I intended, just needed to get it out of my system, so like, unbeta'd but I think it's still decent (also terms for Jon are masc, hawyee)
> 
> Also, if you want to request something, please feel free to shoot a message over to my [tumblr](https://master-fiber.tumblr.com/)!

They make it a few dozen yards from the main hub of the carousel before Martin halts their procession, rounding on Jon with an expression the Archivist can’t begin to parse. Fury? Confusion? …Fear?

Jon starts to ask, as gently as he can, heart a jackhammer of dread in his chest, his mind still sick on the glut of adrenaline that overtook him while the Watcher’s delight courses through each pulse point. 

He gets a word and a half in—“Are y-”—but the rest dies in his throat, followed by an indignant squeak as Martin takes hold of his face, hands curling insistently against his cheeks, and pulls him into a kiss. Delicately considerate, at first, it swiftly devolves into a hungry, searching thing, Martin’s hands travelling down, his left stroking the column of Jon’s throat, encircling loosely at the base. The right, meanwhile, takes up its bruising mantle around Jon’s hip, squeezing and kneading, applying just enough pressure to send Jon stumbling back. One, three, a dozen steps, till his back hits something—a tent pole? There's certainly canvas—and he groans into Martin’s mouth.

“ _Fuck_ , that was hot,” Martin gasps, sighing into Jon’s mouth before burying his tongue between Jon’s teeth once more. 

“M’tin,” Jon manages, helpless to the onslaught of sensation and pressure, his mind reeling with the inanity of it all. 

This isn’t… _un_ like Martin, but in the midst of the Stranger’s den? And a fresh kill under his belt, no less… good lord, the lack of decorum would have a better man huffing chastisements. Jon, however, is possessed of no such foresight in this moment. Or, at the very least, it’s rather being cast to the wayside, Martin doing a remarkable job of making him forget everything that isn’t tongue and teeth, the slick sliding of lips, the beautiful heat of Martin’s hands on him, his face cast in a fiery pink flush when Jon manages to peek open his eyes and behold the mania that’s taken Martin into its clutches.

“You were _incredible_ ,” Martin continues, his words no less of an assault than his mouth, his hands, no less of a debilitating blow to Jon’s knees and stomach, each wobbling and swooping in turn with the _hunger_ Martin fixates upon him when he pulls back for a breath.

“What has gotten _in_ to you,” Jon counters, trying to laugh, trying to play it off—whatever the hell _it_ is in this context—but his voice falters, sounding more hopelessly wrecked than severe. 

“Like you don’t know,” Martin smirks, moving in again, bracing that hand at his throat beneath his jaw and pushing up. 

“I _killed_ someone,” Jon wheezes, and then gasps, his own hands shooting up to grasp Martin’s shoulders as the latter sucks a kiss just beneath the hinge of his jaw.

“Sure did,” Martin mutters, words muffled by the mouthful of Jon’s throat he refuses to relinquish until Jon can bloody _feel_ the bruise that’s starting to form, welling to the surface like ink in water. 

“And _s-so_ , what, you’re— _g’hh_ —this did—you—?”

“Jon,” Martin leans back fully, his eyes swallowed nearly whole by his pupils, such that Jon can make out his own debauched face trapped within their dark pools. 

“You were incredible,” Martin reiterates, tone as level as Jon knows neither of their heartbeats are.

“And,” he adds, his voice angling towards something huskier, dark and wanting, “it would be _highly_ unfair of you to not let me at least _kiss_ you. You can’t just go all… sexy, Beholding Archivist and expect me to brush it off.”

For a horrifying second, Jon thinks he’s compelled this, that that static eked through even his endearing stammers. But the air does not clear between them for there’s nothing there to dissipate, no spark, no tugging, no wicked flick of his tongue like a flint wheel devouring tinder. 

“I,” he licks his lips, suddenly dry, almost regretting the action as Martin’s eyes mercilessly track the movement. “I—I think you’ve accomplished that quite well, Martin.”

“Hm,” Martin leverages a finger beneath his chin, coaxing him forward, “s’pose I have.”

He dives in again, and doesn’t even have to force Jon’s mouth open this time, the latter letting it fall slack, subsumed by the heat building between them, the pleasant haze settling in his addled mind.

At some point, he’s aware of a _wholly_ indecent moan emanating from deep inside his chest, but either he’s been just as vocal so far and simply not noticed, or Martin’s too busy swallowing his tongue, because the only comment Jon gets is a faint laugh, a squeeze of the hip, and that hand returning to the base of his throat, stroking up and down, scratching the pads of his fingers into his skin.

“M’rt’n,” he tries, caging a whimper as Martin nips his lower lip, working down to nibble his jawline.

“Mar- _hah_ -mm _mmmarti-i-in._ ”

He doesn’t realize he’s on his tip-toes till he’s teetering down from them, a mortified flush racing across his cheeks, and he claps a hand over his mouth.

Martin, for his awful, enabling part in this, steps back, gazing as if awestruck.

“Oh?” He squeaks, and then his _damned_ lovely voice dips again, just as he moves back in, cradling Jon’s face with both hands. “Is that _so_ , mister big scary Archivist.”

“I-you-un _fair_ ,” Jon manages, jabbing a finger into Martin’s chest, without any of the actual vitriol to back it up. 

Around them, the Stranger’s song echoes plaintively, distinctly duller since its understudy was ousted, a discordant clash to the heat and tension building between them. It makes Jon’s head swirl, makes his faculties hard to pin down, save for when he focuses solely on Martin, _only_ Martin. The damned frustrating man of his dreams, who’s gone and gotten himself all hot and bothered over _murder_ of all things.

“This is,” Jon starts, still trying to save face, even as Martin’s thumbs begin to massage over the jut of his cheekbones. 

“It’s ill-ad _vised_ , Martin,” he finally settles on, and his stomach takes a dangerous dive as Martin’s expression contorts with equal parts desire and laughter.

That… was definitely the wrong wording. Or, well, it was the correct wording, certainly, but it hasn’t placated Martin in the slightest, not if the knowing smile that creeps across his mouth is any indication.

“Oh,” he purrs, “I _see_.”

And suddenly, his left knee is thrusting between Jon’s legs, arcing up against him and forcing his knees to give out entirely. As well does it succeed in punching out a throaty groan that Martin devours, kissing Jon not unlike a drowning man savors his first sip of air. Slow and _deep_ and breathy, a mess of tongues and saliva that leaves Jon’s chin and cheeks sticky and sharply cool as a breeze eddies in around them.

“ _Extremely_ ill-advised,” he tries again.

“They can’t touch us,” Martin counters. “You said so yourself. So what’s to stop me from giving you everything, mm? What’s to stop me from, say, going to my knees and—”

“Martin!” Jon claps his hand over Martin’s mouth this time, horrified in a completely novel way, one that renders his stomach a pit of raging coals, seeping its warmth lower and lower.

This is… _absurd_. Dangerous and foolhardy and ridiculous and-and-

“I won’t do anything you don’t want, love,” Martin murmurs, somehow having circumvented Jon’s flimsy attempts to cage his wicked tongue.

He’s stationed himself mere centimetres from Jon’s ear, his hands lax upon Jon’s body where they hold him, ground him, steady as the shoreline even amidst a hurricane.

Sod it. Jon knows coercion, has endured it as much as inflicted it, himself, and he knows when someone’s donned a mask just to fuck with him. This is none of that. Simply, this is Martin. Martin, his love, his friend, his confidante, helpless to the thrall of power, devoted to such lavishing lengths. Underneath, though, despite all that, he’s terribly, predictably human, and faced with the inexplicable, that by all rights is his, too. Why should Jon fault him for wanting a quick shag about it? There’s worse things to imbibe. Far more destructive vices under guise of coping, which isn't even what this is about. And it’s… okay, sure, unequivocally ill-fucking-advised, but what’s really stopping him? Public decency? That’s a right laugh.

No sooner has Jon rationalized these barriers to their knees, than does a vast wave of sensation and _want_ fill him to his bones, his head quieting to a dull roar of need and command, and he turns his gaze darkly upon Martin, suffused with the ache that, no doubt, must afflict him, as well.

“You’re so good for me,” he says, each syllable dipping lower, deeper, worn-smooth pebbles sinking in a bottomless lake.

“You’re everything,” Martin breathes back. “Just… tell me what you want, _please_.”

Jon laughs, not quite as confident as he’d like, a note of shyness still slipping in.

“You’d have _me_ say so?” He reaches out, pulling Martin back in. “Are you so sure that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t even know what those are anymore,” Martin chuckles, leaning down and nuzzling Jon’s cheek, planting a demure little kiss. “All I know is you’re unfairly hot when you go all _Archivist_ on a baddie.

“And,” he continues, dragging out the word till it ends on a tenebrous lilt, “it has been _far_ too long since I’ve made you come.”

Jon yelps, jumps, but is held firmly in place by Martin once more, forced to weather the application of another, damned bruise at the base of his throat, spilling over across his clavicle.

“You cheeky b-” he groans again, cutting himself off and scrabbling at Martin’s shoulders, trying not to lose his voice as that awful, clever knee between his legs grinds up and back, up and back, a viciously unfair rhythm.

“F-fine, _fine_ ,” he eventually manages, tapping Martin’s nape three times.

Martin immediately pulls back, his eyes shining, though his mouth has fallen into a worried line.

“Y-yeah?” He ventures.

Jon breathes, in and out, steadying himself, and when his composure returns, he lets it do its bidding, conjuring to his core something just bordering on mean, commanding and _knowing._

“Incorrigible thing,” he says, so fond and so dark, as to be midnight perched on his tongue, his devious smile the waxing crescent. 

Martin does not reply. Good.

Reaching out, Jon strokes his cheek, swiping the pad of his thumb just beneath his lower lip before slipping it up, in, parting his lips in a darling little “o” shape.

He is very, very careful not to compel anything when he says, “How would you let me have you,” and relishes the shudder that runs bodily through Martin.

Martin answers on his knees, sinking to them so readily, that Jon wonders how he’s stayed standing throughout any of this. Any further considerations are decidedly shelved, his mind partly whiting out as Martin makes quick, practiced work of his belt and fly.

“May I?” He gazes up, such devotion in his eyes.

“Go on,” Jon exhales, “show me, love.”

Martin does. 

It elapses somewhat in bullet time. Martin rucking down his trousers, his briefs. Martin breathing hot air against him, a juddering juxtaposition to the cool breeze forever wending the Stranger’s domain. 

Then—Martin’s tongue, his fingers, equally deft, and equally different in their ministrations, such that no part of Jon is left unattended, his cock between Martin’s clever, soft lips, worked to a swollen flush by a wicked tongue. The rest of him—tended by searching fingers, massaging around his slick entrance, one, two slipping slowly inside, gently curling, stroking, curling again. Pulling out. Pushing in. All in alternate tandem with Martin’s mouth, the pleased hum in his throat buzzing through his lips and turning Jon’s composure to a thing of shattered glass. Till he’s winding tight, whining high and helpless, tugging fistfuls of Martin’s hair and grinding against his face. Stammering nonsense things. Seeing sparks. Heaving and struggling and—and—

Climax rips through him like a seam in silk, a soft, exquisite unthreading of so many carefully woven stitches, an inexorable undoing, lovely and debilitating and surely endless, Martin wringing peak after peak of sweet, scorching pleasure through to the soles of his damn feet, his fingertips, the roots of his hair. 

“ _Fuck_ , Jon…” 

He hears this from very, very far away, his head suspended in a bliss that seemingly won’t let him touch down. There’s pressure on his thighs, his hips, the faint sting of over-stimulation, all of which coalesce neatly enough to ground him, and he keens as Martin gives a rough swipe of tongue against his sensitive cock. 

“ _Nhhm_ -too… too much.”

Martin immediately pulls away, resting his cheek on Jon’s bare thigh, his breath coming in faint, misty gasps over Jon’s skin.

“S-sorry,” he says. “You were…”

His words taper off, bottom lip taken between his teeth as he stares up at Jon.

“Come here,” Jon says, only slightly demanding, and Martin’s stood in an intant, letting Jon guide the kiss this time, though his hand does stray again, his middle and ring fingers teasing over Jon’s cock, working down to gather more slick to ease the friction.

“You are a _demon_ ,” Jon accuses, choking on a whimper as Martin rubs his cock between thumb and index.

“Just want to make you feel good,” Martin retorts meekly. “S’at so bad?”

“Perhaps in the midst of an ended world, yes,” Jon fires back, grinning. “Though I do believe my own duties are in order, hm?”

Coaxing Martin’s hands away, he does up his trousers—he loathes the mess, but there are more pressing matters—and then promptly shoves Martin against the tentpole, still refusing to think too heavily about where they are. Martin’s too big for it by half, undoubtedly very uncomfortable, save the look on his face denotes anything _but_ , and Jon smirks, a dangerous confidence coiling in his chest.

“I won’t have you be a martyr,” he says, chucking Martin under the chin, as much endearing as it is condescending.

“I—that doesn’t seem the right word for it,” Martin laughs, though it’s a high strung sound, not in the least convincing. “Bit too… lofty for a blowjob, eh?”

“Oh, I needn’t reciprocate, then?” Jon teases cruelly, reaching his hand between them and palming at Martin through his trousers. “If that’s what you’re implying, of course. Does my perfect, loyal Martin not want to take his dues—fuck my throat and use my pretty mouth for his pleasure?”

“I-I-I didn’t _say_ that,” Martin squeaks, a telling flush creeping up his neck.

“Didn’t have to,” Jon kisses his nose, then leans over, his lips brushing Martin’s ear. “You’re practically broadcasting your thoughts, love.”

Martin makes a spluttering noise, but Jon’s already pulling away, supplicating slowly, letting his hands trail from Martin’s shoulders, down his arms, across his belly, his thighs, bringing them to a halt there as he takes his place at Martin’s feet, knees cushioned by grass already bedded down from Martin’s prior devotions.

“Like you said,” Jon plucks his fingers at Martin’s belt, not even deigning to make eye contact as he does so. “It has been an awfully long time.”

“O-only if you want,” Martin manages.

With that, Jon lifts his gaze, piercing through Martin’s as he slowly works his belt free.

“As if I’d want anything less than you,” he murmurs, and something not wholly human within him _relishes_ the vulnerability that flashes across Martin’s face, the tell of a man broken by his own desires and so deserving of every single one.

Well, Jon will ensure he receives them to their fullest.

He’s good at this, besides. Excellent, in fact. Fucking _incredible_ , on those rare occasions Martin’s of a particularly needy mood. Like now. Only, he does exercise some remarkable restraint as Jon frees his cock, waiting patiently, trembling all the while. Jon, bastard that he is, takes his time. Still holding Martin’s gaze, he spits into his palm, getting it nice and slick before grasping hold of Martin’s cock, starting at the root, stroking his way achingly up, rubbing his palm in circles around the head.

“J-Jesus Christ, Jon, _Jon_ ,” Martin’s fisted his hands in the ratty canvas behind him, and Jon would like to praise him for such commendable conduct, but he decides on a better course of action for his mouth.

Stroking his hand back down, he laps at the head of Martin’s cock, teasing the underside before pressing a light suction with his lips. He repeats this, again, again, savoring each moan and mewl it wrenches from Martin’s chest. Jon’s closed his eyes, keen to enjoy the sensations, alone, but as he takes Martin fully between his lips, he looks up, brimming over with triumph to see Martin moaning skyward, a fist in his mouth, the other white knuckled in the canvas.

He almost wants to dip into that maelstrom of thoughts careening around them both, but they’re a garbled mess, and he’s not interested in anything so esoteric. The weight of Martin’s cock, thick and heavy and _just_ enough of a stretch, suffices wondrously, satiating the feedback loop, and he arcs forward, hungrily swallowing Martin down, gagging pleasantly as he does.

Holding position for a brief few seconds, he rubs the heels of his hands up Martin’s thighs, seeking out the hand that isn’t presently stifling all those lovely groans. He finds it, and threads their fingers together, pulling back as he does so and sucking dutifully.

“Jon ple- _ease_ ,” Martin says. “M’not-not gonna last i-if-”

“If what, Martin,” Jon pulls off his cock, a lazy fist replacing his tongue. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To see me on my knees for you, a mouth for you to use at your leisure.”

“Yes, _God_ , yes, Jon-”

“Then _use_ me,” Jon cuts in, nearly growling the demand.

Yet he knows it’s not compulsion that drives Martin’s hands into his hair, that has Martin tugging him forward, fucking down his throat in one glorious, languid slide of heat and heaviness. It’s only himself, his wants laid bare, and Jon is there to revel in them, to marvel at the result of one who gives so much when they are given, in turn. It’s far less than he deserves, but it’s something, and Jon loses himself to it. The pressure, the rhythmic convulsions of his throat, the obscene sounds, slick and indulgent as saliva drips down his chin. 

A gentleman through and through, though, Martin pulls out at his brink, fisting himself tightly to keep from spilling in Jon’s lolling open mouth.

And Jon wants to berate him sweetly for it, to goad him.

_Come now love, we both know what you deserve_.

But a better idea strikes him, and, almost reverently, he guides Martin’s hands away, replaces them with his own, dancing his fingers up and down the flushed shaft with such delicate precision. Martin whimpers, and through lidded eyes, Jon regards him with the utmost adoration. 

“Come for me, love,” he murmurs, and places his lips one more time beneath the head, sucking and laving with his tongue, stroking him just enough to gain friction, but not enough to impede the ardent attention of his lips. 

Several seconds lapse, things of tentative composition, liable to snap at the slightest upheaval as Martin winds close. Then he twitches against Jon’s lips. Once, twice, and with a whimper not unlike prayer, he breaks, coming sweetly over Jon’s lips, a slow flood of bitter salt that drips down to the corners of Jon’s mouth. Jon does not move. Just keeps sucking and licking and stroking, till Martin’s heaving breaths turn to muted cries. With a final defiance still burning in him, Jon spreads his tongue as wide as he can make it, and licks Martin clean before finally letting him fall back. 

Inspired of a strange sense of obedience, Jon stays kneeling, sat back on his heels and not even bothering to clean the almost symmetrical mess coating his mouth and jaw. He simply watches Martin, his own head fallen sidelong, gaze heavy, everything quiet and calm… serene.

“Er… Jon?”

He jolts, eyes snapping open to find Martin crouched in front of him, adorned with the most sheepish look Jon’s yet seen. His heart leaps, irrevocably fond, and a dopey grin stretches across his mouth. It’s hindered, somewhat, by the ah… drying stains, and Martin, bless him, licks his thumb, reaching up to wipe the worst of it away.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, face aflame, his blush lighting up each freckle on his cheeks like a newly charted constellation.

“Whatever for,” Jon goads, and that inferno spills all the way to Martin’s ears.

“Awful,” Martin accuses, letting Jon pull him in for a chaste, smiling kiss.

“Incorrigible,” Jon says back, “is the word you’re looking for.”

“Among others, yes.”

Jon beams.

“Don’t be cross, love, I can’t help that you’re… helplessly enamored of my proclivities.”

Martin snorts at that, and Jon chuckles with him.

“Christ,” Martin drags a hand through his hair, “when you put it like that, sounds like I’m some sort of accessory.”

“Of a kind,” Jon counters, coyly, and Martin cuffs his shoulder before kissing him again, and again.

“Although, it might be best if we move this elsewhere,” Jon continues, once Martin lets him have his breath back. “Only I don’t think the Stranger will be so amenable anymore.”

“Yeah?” Martin sits back, wiping his mouth and glancing at the festivities still whirring and screaming around them. “Suppose you’re right. Think we’ve overstayed our welcome? Killing that thing and shagging by the tent?”

“It’s a safe enough assumption, I’m sure.”

Martin grins, getting to his feet and offering a hand to Jon who takes it, only to abruptly lose his balance.

“Whoa! Careful there,” Martin catches him in a veritable turn and dip.

“I’m _fine_ , thank you,” Jon mutters, though he puts up no protest to their position. “And I’ll thank your terrible mouth for getting me into this, as well.”

“It says you’re most welcome.”

“Git.”

Martin wags a finger in his face, taps his nose, and then kisses it. 

“Mind your manners, Jon.”

“Or what, Martin-dear,” Jon demurs right back at him. “You’ll get all flustered?”

Martin rights him and then shrugs, a theatrical show to rival even the circus behind them.

“Maybe? Not sure how deep this goes, y’know?”

Jon spares him a long, suffering look, “So murder’s the baseline, is it?”

“Seems to be. You were _awfully_ mean to me when we first started working together, and I got off to that just fine.”

“ _Martin_!”

“Kidding! Kidding, Jon I…”

He trails off, and Jon chooses not to follow after, instead nudging Martin’s shoulder with his before linking their arms at the elbow. Taking quick stock that he’s done his fly up and all, he scrubs his sleeve against his mouth and gives a satisfied huff.

“Shall we then? I hadn’t really factored in this… _detour_ , and we’ll have to make up time.”

“Which isn’t real, might I add,” Martin does indeed add, though with a note of dejection Jon can’t help but ferret out.

“Don’t you worry,” he says, patting the back of Martin’s hand as they take their leave from the Stranger’s environs. “We’ll set up camp somewhere.”

“Yeah?” Martin looks positively chuffed.

“Oh yes,” Jon says matter-of-factly, applying his most erudite tone.

And then, because he’s a proper scoundrel when he wants to be, he lets his voice drop two octaves, turning a menacing stare on Martin.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, love.”

And as Martin goes flame red all over again, he thinks giddily to himself that perhaps there are some benefits to his less savory afflictions. At least, there are where Martin is concerned. And that’s what matters most, after all.


End file.
